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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959880">The Last Shapeshifting Dragon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArrianSenecat/pseuds/ArrianSenecat'>ArrianSenecat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett, Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare, Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Angels &amp; Demons, Alternate Universe - Demons, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bastardizing Shakespeare, Blood and Gore, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark Comedy, Dark Magic, Demons, Dragon sex, Dragons, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Epic, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, Food is People, Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Heaven &amp; Hell, I'm Going to Hell, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Improvised Sex Toys, Incest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mind Rape, Mpreg, Omega Verse, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Psychological Torture, Psychopathology &amp; Sociopathy, Public Claiming, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Hamlet, Regency Romance, Revenge, Riding, Rimming, Shakespearean Language, Shapeshifting, Submission, Sugar Daddy, Torture, Twinks, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, opera sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:47:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArrianSenecat/pseuds/ArrianSenecat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Hamlet falls in love with his uncle? </p><p>An extended whirlwind romance between a young prince and the archnemesis of his clan. After the storm, a dance between two dragons ensues.</p><p>"Sylvester, or Sevy as everyone seems to call him, is always lively and vivacious, he is able to retain a playful attitude even at the hardest of times. </p><p>He can add colours to the chameleon, yet still finds time to smuggle a mouthful of lemony Turkish Delights at the same time".</p><p>There’s love, there’s war, there's bad grammar and dragon sex, there you have it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: A Little Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Prologue</strong>
</p><p>A Little Death</p><p> </p><p>It’s over before it’s over. Sevy gazes down at what is left of the remains of his mother and his home, and spreads his wings to morph into a pathetic fruit fly to fly off incognito. This is not the time to cry; there is no time to cry.</p><p> </p><p>When the news of the massacre of Subcinctus orchestrated by the new regent hit the air, Sylvester was fucking having tea with his elven friends.</p><p> </p><p>Not even an afternoon later, the most resourceful bard of Nullberg lamented the heroic death of the young prince in the mountain range, for he refused to simply be killed in the hands of the sounder of invading Flamix. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>If these will end in fire there’s no grace for sell</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By the blue mountains the young prince gracefully fell</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Behold, all savageries around the nine realms</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Could not tarnish a loyalist heart of gold.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lo and behold, Sevy is far from dead yet. Yes, given he will die and he will bleed, but he refuses to do so without inflicting a scar. He flutters his tiny wings and eventually found an indiscreet spot behind a half decaying leaf. What a sorry sight. The lords and lackeys of Flamix is going to scrap every scratch off the mountains and kill everything that breaths, just to eliminate this unfinished petty annoyance he becomes. But he will not simply curl up to a softball and die.</p><p> </p><p>The key to wining the waiting game is, you get to wait. And he waited, for two weeks, feeding on the decaying carcasses of his fellow uncles, tutors, childhood friends with his fellow flies.</p><p> </p><p>That is the first time he officially meets the regent of Pandemonium. To be honest, Leviathan is not even overtly distinguished, just another cookiecutter self-entitled bastard with a cruel, half-arsed smile. </p><p> </p><p>“Looking good.” The regent comments in front of the frantic ruins he fairhandedly facilitated. It is a pleasant day in hell, no firestorms, falling ice or yet another stupid riots. Why can’t they just grow up and resort to their fate of being brutally dominated until the end of time itself?</p><p> </p><p>This is far from good. In full-on desperation, Sevy tries the last trick in the book by hiding inside the tiny crack on the neck that made up the reversed scale of his clan. That is the precise moment he felt he is brutally caught by his insect wings, and lifted only to be greeted with a pair of flaming red lizard eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Look what we got here.” Lizard eye is literally glowing in mocked surprise, considering he is in a particularly pensive state, presumably after sating his kind’s unquenchable thirst for blood and gore, he decides to switch the direction a little.  “Well little prince, you may fly off now, but I guarantee you, not a century later you will still be laid bare beneath me and get crushed like the little bug you are. Deal, or no deal?”</p><p> </p><p>Being a man/boy of his word, he shifts back, and wordlessly starts stripping.</p><p> </p><p>“I believe you are mistaken.” Flamix raises his brows, or where his brows were supposed to be. Whatever.</p><p> </p><p>This is barbarous. His shoulder blades are shaking timidly by themselves, and he shifts again, naked as the day he was born.</p><p> </p><p>This kind of good behaviour earned him a real smile (as if the dragon can actually perform such a grand gesture), and a cruel fuck. While free-falling with a matured dragon rod, arse-deep in his profusely bleeding no-longer-virgin arse, all he can think of is, at least he successfully contained the tears in his eyes during the entire endeavour. Although to be honest, he cheated a little with his second pair of semi-transparent eyelids.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, moan.” His captor commands, he likes his boys to be desperately vocal. So he moans enthusiastically with those disguising little whimpers he extrapolated from all those trashy romance novels he read when he was supposed to be reading military theories. He has no spine.</p><p> </p><p>Looking back, what great usage of his time. His boi-pal Valarian even had to read the boringly boring materials out loud for him to haphazardly grasp some. Looking for some inspiration to get himself into a state of absolute boredom, he recalls while indefinitely falling down toward the cold hard ground with a heavyweight fire dragon as the cherry on top, “the irregular terrains of the rain shadow region makes the blue mountain a strategic position for ambush and countertactics…” What the hell, no mediocre trendy writer had ever written about the harsh reality. “…home of the legendary clan of Subcinctus, the headquarter nest acts as a stronghold that successfully sheltered the shapeshifting dragons since the second half of the second millennia…” Instead of ascending and descending, consummating the dramatic climax of the Free Fall, actually, they bounce up and down like the two plastic parts of an uncoordinated yo-yo.</p><p> </p><p>“The history of power of Subcinctus is the history of perpetual peace, to protect themselves and to pertain their lifestyles from the power, progress and glory that made up the majority of Pandemonian aristocracies…” Look where the long history of passive defence and kind-hearted nonoffense got them, Sevy reckons as his majesty of Pandemonian aristocracies inseminates a long line of power, progress and glory into his destroyed hole.</p><p> </p><p>While fantasizing the first encounter with his first man (or first woman, although considerably less probable statistically. As the matter of fact, the fairer sex usually prefers the alpha males of their species, not some, quote, pathetic little omegan worm), he’s not really asking for much, not even the cliched creed of wine and dine, diamonds and rubies. If things went well, just some hand-holding, perhaps a soft kiss. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he got a hard fuck.</p><p> </p><p>In front of him, him and him, his kin-slayers.</p><p> </p><p>After an unexpectedly not so heroic little death amidst the mountain range, Sevy can only gather enough strength to be a good boy and fly off. That is to say, before the regent, who also happens to be his dear estranged uncle, decides to change his fling-of-the-moment self-destructive mind.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is a silly experimental companion novella, for a new hellish series I have been put off for far too long.</p><p>Will be updated once every blue moon, when those naughty filthy Muses are having a gay orgy.</p><p>Hell is not other people or any other world, in fact, hell is almost as boringly interesting as heaven is interestingly boring.</p><p>Cheers,<br/>Arrian</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Act 1 A Second Suicide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>To be a prince is uncomfortable enough, try a decorative prince.</p><p>Sevy self-deceptively thinks as he attempts to ride his master into a mutual state of oblivion.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Act 1</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>A Second Suicide</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>      To be a prince is uncomfortable enough, try a decorative prince.</p><p> </p><p>      Dogs and Cats, Oriental Vase and Oriental Rugs. It’s marginally better to be parasitic than predatory. Sevy self-deceptively thinks as he attempts to ride his master into a mutual state of oblivion. Disgracefully not even a week later he got caught again by some keen-eyed headhunter that Flamix immediately and conveniently got rid of. Even more disgracefully, the offer is still on. Pet or perish.</p><p> </p><p>      Since he neither wants to be a pet forever nor is allowed to perish before the regent gets bored, he will need to come up with a plan. A good plan. And quickly.</p><p> </p><p>      And he comes without a plan, by the way, he’s not proud of that.</p><p> </p><p>      Although he’s definitely not finished, that is to say, until he completes his “daily quest” of making an artificial pool on the ten thousand count bedsheet, with his treacherous slicks.</p><p> </p><p>      “Concentrate.” Catching his brief moment of distraction, the commodore commands with a forceful slap on the apple of his cheek. The regent is not finished yet——why can’t he just get over with it?! He just wants an excuse to slap his baby cheeks until both are in the pleasant shade of lobster pink.</p><p> </p><p>      Sevy dejectedly drops the bass again, and mechanically operates his little hand to pet the crestfallen Sevy Jnr. Cheer up little fella, it’s not over yet.</p><p> </p><p>      After a second reckoning, the slick puddle can now serve as the breeding bed of several generations of tiny goldfishes. Too tired to come up with any witty rejoinder, Sevy tries to hide his head into his fluffy cascades of imported omegan pillows, to pretend the world doesn’t exist, he doesn’t exist. Existence is terrifying. Better to be a painting of sorrow, a pucker without a face.</p><p> </p><p>      All passive resistance is futile, only to be pulled over and plied open with four rough yet spidery fingers.</p><p> </p><p>      They remind him of daddy longlegs dancing in the hellfire rain, or daddy long fingers for that matter.</p><p> </p><p>      Then five. Ouch, have some courtesy! Hail Satan, Satan, how weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. Seems to him all the uses of this world!<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> He conveys his displeasure with another soft whimper, which turned out a bit muffed in his soft pillows. He despises himself in a multi-instalments’ epic scale, for getting wetter with all those rude manhandling.</p><p> </p><p>      This is only replied with the regent’s sadistically twirling wrist. Times like this Sevy feels their only channel of communication is through body languages. And isn’t the regent a master of body languages? He’s truly the epitome of “talk less, fuck more.”</p><p> </p><p>      Not that they have any common interests to talk about, how could a [Level. 15 Dragonling] entertain a deep conversation with a [Level. ????? Immortal Boss Lord]? Talking about the next country to burn, the next enemy to kill, the next masterplan for world domination?</p><p> </p><p>      Better morph into a [Level.100 Acid Green Slime Monster] to avoid further deep penetration.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a></p><p> </p><p>      As if he can read through his thought (can he?!), the immortal boss lord curtly bequeaths him a “don’t you dare” gaze. Although Sevy can’t see it <em>per se</em>, he can feel it with every inch of his exposed and splayed out body.</p><p> </p><p>      The whimper shifts to weeping. Sevy once again flounderingly tries to struggle to get free from the intruding red right hand (from his blood, Duh), but all those pulsing and shaking, shaking and pulsing only seems to excites the chief culprit even more. The regent opts for a dramatic finish with a quick dislocation of his hand, only to be replaced with several shots of filthy alpha slime straight into his gasping plücker. His seeds fly up; his slicks remain below. Seeds without slicks never to heaven go.</p><p> </p><p>      Sure, the sex is good, so is the weekly spa in the royal gold vault, but that is not remotely the point. During most of the times, he was not spending in Leviathan’s 24k bed, spreading on Leviathan’s 24k table, or slouching under Leviathan’s 24k throne, he’s thinking of how to get back at Leviathan. Or to put it more realistically, how to get away from him.</p><p> </p><p>      Unfortunately, shapeshifting didn’t work. So does good old magical teleporting, so does dragon fever faking, bathtub drowning, curtain rod hanging, ministers seducing, guards hypnotising, pillow-talk begging…</p><p> </p><p>      Now the regent knows every inch of his body, yet Sevy barely know anything about him. Not that he <em>desires</em> to know.</p><p> </p><p>      If all else fails, maybe he can throw the towel and re-enact the regent’s ravage of the opposition force in a five-act play, and challenges him to duel and die gracefully on stage.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Here, you goddamn incest-breeding Flamix murderer</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where has your little prince gone to? I’m dying.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>All of you speechless spectators will follow suit</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sooner or later one by one in one way or another<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3"><strong>[3]</strong></a></em>
</p><p> </p><p>      Too late for that. No need to whitewash his ruined reputation. Who in the nine circles of hell has the spare time to coin up the term of "<em>Levy’s white-cheeked toy boy Sevy</em>”? Don’t the dead bards have other things to write about? Like how to sit and wait for Apollo to be reborn and bequeath them some holier-than-thou snow-white village virgins, while they sit on the bench and waste their afterlives away bathed in the regal aura of ultimate uselessness?</p><p> </p><p>      “Still have the stamina for self-reflection, do we?” The regent probes in once more, excavates some slick-slime blend, flips Sevy up like a spatula, and forces his index and middle fingers into Sevy’s mouth like they are some sick imitation pacifier. After demanding his boy to lick them clean “all the way down the stems”, he uses <span class="u">the same hand </span>to groom through the boy’s bird nest blonde curls. Only after this stunt, he finally exits the chamber, presumably to continue on his lordly business.</p><p> </p><p>      Just as Sevy intends to recline back to his daily dose of self-loathing and half-hearted hopelessness, dramatically, the window opened.</p><p> </p><p>      ——Da bedroom window is unlocked all these times?!</p><p> </p><p>      “Sevy!” A whispering shout bombards him out of his unbelieving reverie, “Come, quickly!” Oh, Valarian. How could he forget about the youngest master illusionist to date, his bestie and proverbial white knight in armour, sweet Valarian?</p><p> </p><p>      “Twenty minutes ago…” he grumbles, indeed, moment like this does make sassy bitches to us all. Taking the shape of a little white pigeon full of unnecessary grandiose symbolism, Sevy flies toward the sweet taste of freedom in style. More like the bitter taste of the sulphurous toxic fume of Pandemonian night air.</p><p> </p><p>      Thus, the last shapeshifting dragon’s sacred reputation is saved by a second ballad denoting a second suicide. Sometimes rumour kills, sometimes rumour is killin' it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> <em>Hamlet</em>, Act I, ii.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> The magnificent concept of lv.100 Slime is not originated from your unreliable narrator. We think it’s from an old meme in an ingenious LGBTQ+ simulation education from the Republic of China (Taiwan).</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Partially plagiarized from Will Shakespeare, <em>Hamlet</em>, Act 5 Scene 2 (Finale).</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Act 2 The Unexpected Second</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Act 2</strong>
</p>
<p>The Unexpected Second</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everything is perfect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Perfect pair of old friends catching up their perfect times in picture-perfect paradise in the countryside. Life has never been better, three months on the run and still running strong.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Well, as the master illusionist and his little messaging owl in owlish disguise. Sevy smugly blinks his teacup-sized honey eyes while perching on his friend’s shoulder. He skillfully digs his beak inside the thick layers of milk-white feathers, to get to a point to be a well-groomed owl free of all those sneaky parasites.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This owl also happened to have to fight off a viciously crushed squid that attacked him while he was bathing in the Styx to get rid of all those dried up white gunk.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just as the <strike>maiden</strike> dragon is laid bare, the <strike>angel trumpet</strike> fallen angel’s band practice nearby sounds, a gargantuan tentacle emerges from the sea, snatching the snack perchance it founds…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…One by one they burst out, one for the tummy, one for the nape, two for the thighs, two for the arms, one for the little chummy, one for the gaped back door…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who knows to survive a <em>Bildungsroman</em>, the dragonling also has to successfully defend himself against, um, tentacle rape? Well, problem solved in the shape of a sperm whale, because why not.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Metonymically transferring the squid as someone else, one by one he eats them out, one for his mummy, one for his realm, two for their rights, two for their harms, one for the little Sevy, one for the war and gore…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He chews them and spits them off like they are some glorious garbage that should rot in the bottom of the world, that is to say, before he remembers they are out of food. Indeed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Freshwater and vintage coins are in short supply, but that’s okay. He is confronted with one problem though: Sevy probably needs to think creatively and walk a zigzagged path, if he were to continue his line.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Another dilemma: how to make a lot of baby shapeshifting dragonlings in little time, if he’s the last of his kind? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Time is of the essence and on the line</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Getting high on life but low on time</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>In running forward to gain time</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We are running out of time</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not to mention the nearest next of kin is his only uncle left alive: his rapist, for Christ’s sake. Unironically.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s a pity he has to unconsciously compose Listicles just to get by, oh how far he has fallen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As if it were not enough, adding insults to injury, on the road to exile, Sevy finds he can no longer stomach his beloved Turkish delights Valarian benedictorily conjured for him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Originally sponsored with a full scholarship at the Royal Military and Magick Academy, and indefinite sources of funding to become his chief advisor after his eventual accession, although this decisively did not work out, Valarian can still be his chef.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The master illusionist painstakingly (albeit masterfully) summoned a banquet out of thin air to celebrate their three-month-on-the-run anniversary. With organic rosewater cage-free human bone broth to warm up their belly, <em>spaghetti al nero di calamari giganti</em> <em>alla Pandemonio</em> he freshly caught<em>, </em>laced with rose Turkish delights sculpted like actual roses, it was truly a work of art.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Uncensored version of the story: he puked on their food.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>First diagnosis: he’s either crazy or pregnant.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Diagnosis confirmed: he’s both.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unwilling to stomach another second of Valarian’s petrified and pitiful gaze, he metamorphoses to a tragic swan, cradles his non-existent baby bump, and swears:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’m gonna annihilate this little bastard.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Act 3 On Second Thought</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Disregarding all the showering with gold disks and old dick, who does he think he is? Sevy is practically asking for it.</p><p>The knot fits him like a glove, like it should be always here, “Äh Yessssss...Wait——What?”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Act 3</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>On Second Thought</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m going to annihilate this little bastard.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This incestuous little parasite, this freak.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to annihilate this little bastard.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Am I going to annihilate this little bastard?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The soup is brewing on the makeshift stove, all they need is the egg. With a shaking picnic knife dangling above his protruding stomach, he cannot make himself to stop being such a whiny little white-cheeked bitch and just dig in.</p><p> </p><p>Speaking of perfect timing, just as he finally decides to grow up, to be a man, and get done with it, his stomach is hit with a vicious analgesic spell. They have finally caught upon him.</p><p> </p><p>Rather, his egg’s other father, or great uncle, or great uncle-father, finally caught upon him.</p><p> </p><p>It is supposed to be a paralyzing spell. It is a hard fifteen minutes. He’s blood stopped; they can’t breathe.</p><p> </p><p>They couldn’t breathe.</p><p> </p><p>“It seems after all these times, you have not yet forgotten about...my potion pot.” Looking amused, the fire dragon absently remarks. How could the petulant boy not understand, instead of playing hide and seek, he has other affairs to tend to and other maggots to get rid of? Of course he got rid of the oblivious maggots the team of his servants was made of at a moment’s notice, who do you think he is?</p><p> </p><p>“The irony has not escaped my mind.” Sevy bites back, this is all he can do now.</p><p> </p><p>A cold smirk. Once again he has been brutally pulled over, and gracelessly falls to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Sevy tries to get back up, only to be toppled over again, this time, by the regent’s weight. This particular poise was supposed to be a primal signal of his mate for safety and stability. Whatever.</p><p> </p><p>With the right amount of uplifting decadence, Botticelli’s Primavera used to be his favourite painting. This is distinctively not what he imagined when he said he wanted to live in a painting.</p><p> </p><p>With a dewanded Valarian watching through the gaps of his eyes-covering hands for some extra voyeurism, with three fate goddesses who are just passing by nearby, but stayed for the show, and a stereotypical stock character dark priest, those are the silent witnesses who occurred just for the sake of it. All they need is a baby angel who’s shooting directly into his heart.</p><p> </p><p>Sevy shifts to dragon form, so Levy shifts to dragon form, Sevy switches to human form, so Levy switches to human form, Sevy sways to swan form, so Levy fucks his swan form.</p><p> </p><p>He grabs his graceful swan neck, jerks and chokes upward to control the rhythm downward. Like a proper dactylic hexameter, five short and swift, and a long haul to finish it off. Then pulse and repeat, in the elevated doggy style.</p><p> </p><p>Not that he lacks tact or manner in the first place. Since the previous light-handed touches only enabled the petulant child to squirm and run, he still has to do it the hard way.</p><p> </p><p>Disregarding all the showering with gold disks and old dick, who does he think he is? Sevy is practically asking for it.</p><p> </p><p>“Marry me.” The ruling regent demands as his knot temporarily ties them to a single entity. As if it were a heat of the moment decision. Judging from the bizarrely dancing Fates and the scribbling priest, decidedly not.</p><p> </p><p>The knot fits him like a glove, like it should be always here, “Äh Yessssss...Wait——What?”</p><p> </p><p>Wordlessly as always, the regent forces him down with his weight and bites down his throat, all teeth and fangs, and inserts an unholy dose of venomous venoms into his mating gland.</p><p> </p><p>Sevy tries to fight it, rumour says it a forced mating bond might result in sweet painful death if the submissive party is playing extra unhelpful. Yet he barely has enough fight left in him to think of such rebellious thought in his paralyzed and poisoned state.</p><p> </p><p>The three old hags drop their common property eyeball and all start laughing. Darling, it’s too late for that.</p><p> </p><p>Deceiving himself, he decides those melon-eating spectators are of no importance. However, what is tragically important is that they are tied and stuck together, until the end of time.</p><p> </p><p>So they got married under the moon. By the ministration of the stars, well, and a scribbling dark priest so apparent as a stock character he doesn’t even have a name.</p><p> </p><p>Sevy knows he pulled this stunt to grab the blue mountain suzerainty, to wipe the Subcinctus out, and to fuck and fuck with him, not necessarily in that order.</p><p> </p><p>He despises him for that nonetheless, among other reasons.</p><p> </p><p>After the regent finally exhausted himself on him, Sevy climbs out of his captor and climbs back into his golden cage. Not mentioning how much he’s body urges him to the nest by wrapping himself as a dragon burrito with 24k gold-threaded shock blankets and drink himself into a much-welcomed stupor, he still has a murdered egg to get rid of. At least he can’t murder them twice. </p><p> </p><p>He cannot care less...he cannot...he finally splices them out, those pearly sheening shells, his presumably but proven-not vestigial organ goes along with them. Together housed in a cute little pot of innocuous white flowers he couldn’t name. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not nearly as painful as he expected, but the pain is <em>memorable</em>. He doesn’t want any numbing magic near him ever again.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not going to allow the same mistake twice.</p><p> </p><p>Valarian is not dead though, that he cares.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you have time for some extra poetic, read Ovid’s Metamorphosis for some more rapey gods’ relentless gossips. THOU SHALT NOT REGRET IT.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Act 4 At the Opera Tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Here’s a line: The Regent is eating meat; the Bard is drinking mead; the Dragon is eating shit, they are all happy.</p><p>In an act of poetic justice, Sevy decides to play naughty at the opera tonight.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Act 4</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>At the Opera Tonight</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Although Sevy does not deem it as possible, Leviathan eventually found out about it. </p><p> </p><p>Through the unrestrained mouth of a fucking court bard. Why are they everywhere?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Roses are red</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Violets are blue</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Orchids are dead</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Regent’s egg too</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Here’s a line: The Regent is eating meat; the Bard is drinking mead; the Dragon is eating shit, they are all happy.</p><p> </p><p>Not only does he found out, he actually inquired about it. On the sole condition: he gets to eat the egg.</p><p> </p><p>His dead baby.</p><p> </p><p>Since he still has Valarian, he reluctantly agreed. As he is digging the flower pot with his picnic knife to extract the partially decomposed egg, all he can think about is, he really has no spine.</p><p> </p><p>“Where is it?” The regent enters in the middle scene, and solemnly demands.</p><p> </p><p>“Here you go.” Sevy murmurs, he already booked a ticket to Terram Oblivionis’ vacay spot, watching little däemones geniously playing mini accordions, and bask in mindless gold-digging entertainment, to avoid seeing Leviathan gleefully eating his egg.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” The fire dragon responds politely, and whisks it away gently, into the blurry pocket sinkhole that is his ceremonial long sleeve (just one). It’s almost unlike him.</p><p> </p><p>Promise made, promise kept. Pinching several more pennies of research grants as if it were some sick consolation price, château de San Bastille sets a dejected Valarian to roam free, to continue his tasteful studies for the contribution toward the hellish society. Upon receiving the delightful news, Sevy tastelessly shoves a box of Turkish delights into his mouth to celebrate, and promises himself, after this, he is going to stop cooperating for good.</p><p> </p><p>He might hold him in indefinitely, he might hold him down every night. But from now on he can only rape the sad little meat of his body. Everything else is off the table. </p><p> </p><p>If he’s not going to end up on Leviathans’ table in the most literal manner, eventually he might end up stuffed as a curious specimen in the Natural History Museum of Hell, just as all the shabby old toys before him. </p><p> </p><p>But as long as he still breathes, he’s going to give Leviathan some serious headaches. </p><p> </p><p>And that begins with sitting on his laps at the Royal Opera House’s opening night.</p><p> </p><p>Their kind loves shiny things like a diamond. Especially diamond. But that is not the reason to shove a fancy red diamond into his pucker. It’s not very diplomatic even considering it is a diplomatic gift.</p><p> </p><p>That is to say, after their unilaterally satisfying grinding session, slow and slimy, like some mucous mollusc gliding through some suiciders’ tree trunk.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> He can’t get no satisfaction, so he fires up his imagination and tries to act cool by making the residing regent look bad. That thought makes him wet, it makes him come.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently, the smug bastard is amused with his ad hoc solution to the leaking omega after their hazard encounter said omega had haphazardly initiated. A petulant child who leaves a trail of slick upon arrival should therefore be punished accordingly.</p><p> </p><p>Rather, the regent entertains another glorious pastime.</p><p> </p><p>He grasps the gold rim of the box as if he will fall down by any second. Thanks to some corrupted engineer’s ingenious grafting, it is not even real gold.</p><p> </p><p>On stage, the ornamental coloratura soprano is doing her trade, whilst upstairs, the regent is doing his trick, by doing him.</p><p> </p><p>Sevy twists and turns passionately. So much for the colourful language, vivid leaps and trills.</p><p> </p><p>People are here to watch the spectacle, people are watching them. Sevy can see through the judgmental gazes now. It is very hard to miss the scene impeccably conducted in the box level centre stage highlighted with a gleaming golden frame. Doesn’t matter. It’s part of the show.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t even have the decency to close the luscious velvet curtains. As much as he values privacy, what is he supposed to do seeing his boy loves to show off?</p><p> </p><p>Enjoying the utmost attention from the diverse crowds, Leviathan caresses the curved slot on his waist, and ruthlessly presses down, forcing him to lift up in the shape of the classical lordosis.</p><p> </p><p>Then Sevy feels deeply, of him smashing in. He swallows another whimper, albeit quite unsuccessfully. Luckily the moan is covered up by the piercing yet soulful aria.</p><p> </p><p>Some heavenly diplomat makes a micro-frown, in silent protest of such public display of affection, most distasteful is the juxtaposition of refinement with...debauchery.</p><p> </p><p>None of their business. Sevy held his head high all the way, no need to miss out a wonderful performance by messing up.</p><p> </p><p>Once the anticlimactic climax is over, he shifts uncomfortably back in his seat. How do you sit when your seat is burning?</p><p> </p><p>Rated the first reigning monarch in hell to commit sodomy at the opera.</p><p> </p><p>“Does <em>daddy</em> approve?” His voice is still shaking from all those violent joys, yet he broadcasts as loudly as dragonly possible. </p><p> </p><p>Projection is the key, little Sevy prematurely leaks out several silvery strings-so is the perfect timing- the stains have successfully made a mess of the regent’s imperial gown. Extraordinary extravaganza.</p><p> </p><p>The eavesdropping diplomat is practically sweating and shaking right now, due to ecstasy or disgust, he does not know.</p><p> </p><p>“Try harder next time.” The regent generously provides a slightly amused smirk, and a painful thrust.</p><p> </p><p>He is trying to frig himself so hard on the regent’s hardness, by relying on gravity alone. </p><p> </p><p>“How much you <em>ache</em> to play cute”, and making a show of them, the regent bites the tender meat of his ear, speaking low enough only both of them can hear, “such a cute whore for daddy.” Isn’t he an adorable doll?</p><p> </p><p>Sevy twitches with that filth (he has gladly initiated), from not far away, the underwhelming sound of the soprano’s falsetto is almost as penetrating.</p><p> </p><p>After vigorously milking him dry, Sevy devolves into a teacup pig and sits on <strike>daddy’s</strike> uncle’s lap, and purrs.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything for daddy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t forget your gift.” Still obligated to receive the hard-on hard-line guest, the regent pulls out, tucks in, and seamlessly plugs up his used whore’s dripping gaping hole, with the bloody diamond. </p><p> </p><p>He seems to have disregarded Sevy is still in his pig form. So Sevy has to climb onto the side table and hide in an empty teacup, bleeding diamond blood milk in full-filling shame and low-key despair.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Suiciders became trees in hell, not according to yours truly. Dante Alighieri, <em>Inferno</em>, Canto XIII, see the wood of the self-murderers.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Modelled after L’opéra Garnier, because there's...a lot of gold. </p><p>Inspired by a pair of fondling love birds who happened to sat by your narrator's side during none other than Luisa Miller. Please don't, it's not nice.</p><p>Have a great summer everyone, let's get on with our little miserable life;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Act 5 The Short Amendment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sevy decides to join in Leviathan’s conquest, because apparently this is the fastest way to bring down the regime.</p>
<p>TD: on-screen infanticide, self-mutilation, species dysphoria, and inappropriate use of Turkish Delight, please proceed at your own volition.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Act 5</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>The Short Amendment</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What is the best way to avoid your treacherous, lecherous lord? Join the military.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Burning villages have never been so fun. Why didn’t he find out sooner?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he’s not riding him, Sevy is riding around the world. Off to his merry little way along with his vicious flyboys, like merry go round but with a swarm of bad dragons.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wrapping up. Will be back at the palace for dinner.” He singlehandedly typed into his messaging device. How quaint it is to become the exact cookiecutter type of Pandemonian overlords he hated the most since he was a dragonling. Well, not exactly, more like the puppy-eyed braindead lackey of said overlords.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Between the heavenly tyranny and the democracy for lords and lackeys in hell, Sevy is stubborn in his total indifference.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What’s in it for him to care? Sometimes he made a show of it to feign it like he feigns orgasms. Often, sometimes, notatall. The eternal trope of “money, love, revenge” quickly gets old. Salt and pepper, peppered with shite and popper.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He just gonna excel in being the good little yes-dragon “just following the order”. It’s almost liberating to not to fly free at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With that tasty thought, the dragon tastefully shifts into a textbook fire dragon, and unleashes a gulp of filthy fire upon the army of perpetually baby-shaped angels. Fire is force, force is fire, hovering above heavenly air.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>How much he hearts to be the cause of havoc, especially upon the Holy Roasted Empire of Liberty. Now devoid of fluffy clouds, the scorched skyline is filled with medium roast flying babies. What a lovely sight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Over the rainbow not far away, a half-destroyed signpost with the cursive engraving “NO FUCKING ON THE CLOUDS” flows adrift, like the last remnant of an intergalactic species’ elegiac farewell.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“     FUCK      ON      E CLOUD  ”. Just one? Sevy squints his now retarded lizard eyes and reads in a sonorous voice. When you morph into a Flamix, you become...sexy. He languidly stretches his magnificent wings, impales several more infanticided babies on the sharpened tips, just enough to make a satisfying angel kabuki, it’s perfect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Falcon Claw” later became the trademarked nickname of his team, with its own massacre commemoration merch and all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Responding to hell historians’ iconographical speculations on “its overarching symbolism as the strength of spirit and the triumph of will”, Sevy refuses to comment on the origin of the name of their species.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He brings him victory, he rapes him at dinner. What a lovely couple. Sevy shoves another piece of perfectly sliced lemon delight down his throat, as his regent is shoving something else diligently from his behind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’s on your sneaky little mind, my pet?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nothing! Keep working.” For anything that can’t be solved with one Turkish Delight, make it two. Another. And another.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The hardworking regent is quite unamused seeing his attraction is by no means comparable to some… peasant candy. In the meantime, he devises a masterplan to compel his delinquent boy to refocus.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Expecting the rude intrusion of the hard popsicle, instead, he is filled with a soft, slow burn.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Still too sweet.” The connoisseur distractingly hums out a comment, then intrudes in again. Once more, with tongue and teeth. As if he’s consuming a just concocted marshmallow lemon smoothie, not some silly little bugger’s, for the lack of better words, bugger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Then stop it——Ehhh…Em…” Sevy tries very hard to shut him out by squeeze tight the distracting dragon tongue out of him, he tries he tries he tries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why in hell should I do that?” This rhetorical device is delivered with even more conspicuous consumption.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To unleash some form of poetic justice, he tries to live clean and stay sober away from lemon candies, but breaks the spell after four excruciating days.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One cannot be tragically raped for 871.25 years; the non-con becomes dub-con after a while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And the child prostitute becomes the child bride, then Prince Consort Flamix.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For tax reason only.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After all, it was hate at first sight, at last sight, at everlasting sight.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Something must have gone terribly wrong with him, for him to know the exact sound of his rapist’s sneezing when he’s tired, or to inadvertently learned his rapist’s favourite segment from Flamix’s thuglike repertoires that ruthlessly clusterapes its listeners’ eardrums.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He ends his day, he fixes him a drink, he deports both of them to the battlefield/workplace to “FALCON CLAW”.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Since true love bleeds together, with love out of the way, he will bleed him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But first thing first, he has to bleed for him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sevy spits out the poisonous weed rod from his mouth, and continues the great work.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s like chopping onions really, you just have to get close, and start chop, chop, chop.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s even one of the first to volunteer for the invasion of the Fourth Ring Heaven, maybe he can finally die, maybe he can bring the regime to die with him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Purr…It was a pyrrhic victory, later followed by a disgraceful lost. Of course they won the battle. Don’t you see who’s commanding the flyboys? Duh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A nice add-on product is the fact that half of his face is flayed by some kamikaze fire angel squads. Although the original plot should be deemed as very insidious indeed, very conveniently it would allow him to argue for a separation under the deliberately vague clause of “…and any additional possible defamation of the imperial image”. Your majesty, <em>lèse-majesté</em><em>!</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hence, it would be another lost opportunity if he did not show up with a grand entrance to hell’s most snobbish court with half of his face gone. Puff. Just gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So Sevy shows up with the better half of his face still dripping in blood, and literal fallen angels’ feathers in his dirty blonde curls.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To this, his majesty only spares a single scorn, “nice try”. Someone seems to have forgotten a shapeshifting dragon can, by definition, shapeshifts into a shapeshifting dragon with both halves of his face intact. Better try harder next time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That annoying court bard even has the gut to pluck his human gut strings and sings, one day Sevy is going to eat him once he finally decided that he had enough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>All is fair in love and war</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Null is fair for the fair consort</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He yearned to fight like he’s in love</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He fought with love like it is war</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course they lost the war. To this day, no one has ever successfully outwitted the dealer. You play to get played (and to get played with), not to win gold or glory. Life is a game, a rigged one. At least speaking from his limited experience.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s also not the first to jump ship. It takes too much and too long not to fully enjoy the moment.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Which ends up in a haphazard arrangement since by law, they are still lawfully wedded.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His ghost-written will to “perish in the fire together with the Regent” is been politely ignored, since this new lord-of-thou-all is not only an oh-so-cute archangel, but also a lame duck legal geek. Such a shame. Tradition is very important to them both.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Unless you are into that sort of thing, then be our guest. This killer slogan belongs to the disgraced comedian Louis C.K.</p>
<p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> cf. Nabokov’s notoriously naughty <em>Lolita</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Public disgrace unveiled! Neo-con dragon exposed! </p>
<p>Sevy, shame on you, shame on you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Epilogue: A Delayed Birth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Epilogue</strong>
</p>
<p>A Delayed Birth</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s not over after it’s over.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sadly, he didn’t end up singlehandedly murder or double suicide with Leviathan. Nonetheless, to actively contribute to the efforts that led to the regent’s dethronement is enough. Hopefully. Fair mother good mother kind mother forgive him. He’s not that barbarous.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Leaving the royal title comes with unexpected consequences, namely, they got to work as a dual-earner household without all those royal handouts. He quickly landed a fake job as <em>le législateur</em>’s personal assistant (Lord Solomon’s pet) with his looks, well, the better half of his face, at least.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After several more months of nagging and arguing (How am I supposed to do that? WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO? NOW I HAVE TO WORK WITH THOSE CENTRIST SNOWFLAKES AND EVEN SOME GODFORSAKEN LIBERAL BIRDMEN TO BRING YOUR CAGE-FREE HUMANBACON ON THE TABLE!!DO YOU BY ANY CHANCE STILL WANT TO KEEP YOUR STUPID GOLD VAULT?! To be fair, it is a decent treasury…*muffled rejoinder and anti-climactic naughty actions ensued in the gold vault*) … Leviathan finally accepted the teaching position at the Royal Military and Magick Academy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They gave the deposed war fanatic tyrant an honorary military theorist post, what a bunch of sycophantic amnesiac hypocrites.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sevy reluctantly opens their 900 years anniversary gift, checks the slimline skeleton dragon frame for a second, and reluctantly closes the lid. The little unborn omega was probably boiled to be skinned and taxidermized, subsequently hugged by amber stone in a classical ouroboros shape. They looked so deformed under the dim candlelight in their summer palace parlour space.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You didn’t think I would really consume them, did you?” Leviathan offers a half-smile, given their almost negligible yet still existing species gap, the egg would have been a stillbirth anyway. He does not intend to cause extra drama to the boy’s persecutory delusion, or, to put it mildly, certain melodramatic tendency. Nonetheless, he always knew they might come handy someday, just in case.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He ended up lending them to the Natural History Museum, where they belongs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The little one also got a name, not the tedious <em>Royal Highness Blah Blah Blah Pretentious Name Subcinctova Levianthanovich Flamix</em>, just</p>
<p> </p>
<p>[MHNI FOS 270924 The Last Shapeshifting Dragon]</p>
<p> </p>
<p>on an adorable 24k plaque.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Maybe one day he will visit them, and bring with him a proper name, or gather enough strength and research to perform a posthumous incubation, maybe.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Avigail sounds fine, alas, so much for ‘my father’s delight’. <em>Avigail Rosa Sylvesterova Levianthanovich Subcinctus-Flamix</em>…they appears to approve this in his dream, or did he finally becomes the psychotic little bitch he should have already became several centuries ago?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not three miles away inside a shady bar, the shady young bard skims through the intelligence delivered on a paper napkin. Now a gainfully undeployed bard, thanks to the new his majesty’s distaste toward court gossips, the lower register, and silly songs about knockin’ on pretty boys’ back doors. Who cares, as long as he still has bad poetry and good music, he’ll get by just fine. He adjusts his strings, and completes the final touch up,</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>If these will end in grace there’s fire after the fall</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The young prince by the blue mountain of them all</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Beloved, for nine hundred years to be or not to be</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Two gilded hearts rejoin as one if you believe</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Sevy is still waiting for the perfect moment to tell the ex-regent that by any count, he does not love him. He’s still thinking about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“After all these times, don’t be such a tease.” After all these times, his pillow talk skill is still…mildly disappointing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“HEY, I’m not saying I’m not in love with you.” Before he realized, he blurbs out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oops, too little, too late.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Levy pulses for a moment, takes off his smart-arse fancy pants gold-rimmed glasses, and indulgently bequeaths him a kiss on his burned cheek. Now, isn’t that a good pet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sevy suddenly recalls, it is their first kiss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> On very unlikely occasions with good preservation and even better necromancy spells, stillbirth dragon egg can hatch into undead skeletonized dragon. Fully conscient but zombie-like, it’s probably for the best for them to stay dead. For instance, His Imperial Highness Lucifer’s double-headed bone dragon Epsilon Geminorum “Gemini” is one of such precious specimens.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here we go. Cheers everyone, have a great autumn-winter season.</p>
<p>Ta ta,<br/>Arrian</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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